by Anita Abriel
“Do you think anyone tells the truth about their past?” Edith asked. “The doctor at the Hotel Majestic boasts that he was a renowned surgeon in Vienna. Miguel heard him talking at the hotel bar and he flunked out of medical school. He faints at the sight of blood.”
“I knew a man had something to do with this,” Vera said. “Who is Miguel?”
“He’s the porter at the Hotel Majestic; he got us the invitation. There was a whole stack of invitations in the Buchanans’ suite; they weren’t going to miss one. And don’t worry, Miguel isn’t attracted to me. He likes full-figured women.” She ran a hand over her slim hips.
“Your new friend Miguel is risking his job,” Vera warned.
“I promised to make his girlfriend a dress once I get my first commission,” Edith admitted. “The party will be packed with women who can afford a wardrobe of evening gowns.”
Vera put the cherries in a bowl.
“I can’t wait to hear all about it. I’ll be home, ironing my dress. I have an interview at an ad agency tomorrow. They want someone who speaks English, so I’m going to reread the books Anton gave me.”
Vera kept the small stack of books under the bed: Tender Is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald and A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway, as well as a poetry collection. When she turned the pages she imagined Anton reading them over his coffee in the morning room of the embassy in Naples.
“Please come with me; I have an extra invitation. A single girl is a sight of pity, but two Hungarian beauties together will be the talk of the ball. Besides, you don’t want me to go alone,” Edith sighed theatrically. “I don’t want to get in a dangerous situation.”
It would be fun to go to a party, and Edith knew just what to say to make her reconsider. The last thing she wanted was for Edith to drink too much champagne. “All right, I’ll go. But I’ll have to wear my black dress; I don’t have anything else.”
She had sold the gowns Gina had given her to pay their rent while they searched for jobs.
“Yes you do. I’ll be right back.” Edith turned and hurried up the staircase.
Edith returned holding a breadth of white fabric as gossamer-like as a cloud on a summer day. She unfurled it and it was something Vera had seen Rita Hayworth wear at the movies: a white organza skirt and a fitted bodice with a white sash.
“It’s gorgeous! Where did it come from?” Vera breathed.
“I made it for you.” Edith held it out to her. “You didn’t think I spent all the money from the pearls on myself?”
* * *
The ballroom at the Hotel Majestic was even more elegant than the one at the Grand Hotel in Budapest. The parquet floors looked perfect for dancing, and vases of flowers gave off an exotic scent. The American women—friends of the Buchanans’—had diamond earrings as big as birds’ eggs, and evening gowns that rustled when they walked. Vera wondered if these were the kind of women Anton met at his country club.
Edith was luminous in a velvet stole and white gloves. She stood in a corner surrounded by men, and Vera had to laugh. How could Edith show off her dress to other women if she was practically hidden by a wall of tuxedos?
“Your friend is a good actress.” A man stood next to her. He had a beak-like nose and wore a shabby sports jacket.
“Edith isn’t an actress; she’s a dress designer,” Vera said, watching Edith pull charmingly at her gloves. She looked so young and fresh, like a debutante at a ball.
“She might not be an actress, but I doubt she’s spent time at an atelier in Paris.” He reached into his pocket for a lighter. “If she had worked for Schiaparelli or Balenciaga, she would have become addicted to cigarettes.” He waved at the group. “All those men are smoking and she hasn’t once asked for a cigarette.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Vera claimed. If she didn’t go along with Edith’s story, they might get kicked out of the party.
“Your secret is safe with me,” he said, grinning. “I like watching her, and Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Buchanan can afford to feed two extra guests. They could afford to feed a good portion of Caracas with the sapphire pendant around Kitty Buchanan’s neck.” He held out his hand. “Julius Cohen.”
“Vera Frankel.” Vera breathed a sigh of relief. “How did you know?”
“I’m a portrait artist. I’m paid to notice small details,” he said. He lit a cigarette.
“Have you been in Venezuela long?” Vera asked, recognizing his Austrian accent.
“Since 1939. My wife and son and I were some of the lucky ones. We were passengers on the Caribia,” Julius said gravely.
“You were on the Caribia?” Vera repeated. She had read about the ship that left Vienna in 1939 as the borders of Austria were closing. It set sail for Trinidad, but when it arrived no one was allowed to disembark because the government didn’t want the burden of Jews in their country. After that the captain tried to land at all the British colonies, but no one would accept them. The passengers were afraid they would have to return to Europe, but finally the Venezuelan authorities allowed them entry.
“It was the most nerve-wracking few weeks of our lives,” Julius recalled. “I still remember when the port in Venezuela came into view. It was nighttime, and the sea and sky were black, and in the distance I could make out mountains. But there were no lights, and the ship’s captain couldn’t land without them. Suddenly there was the strangest sight: all along the dock, trucks beamed their lights in our direction.
“When we landed there was a crowd waiting with food and clothing. I even remember a band and people dancing. Venezuela has been our home for eight years and I thank God every day for putting us on that ship. Here it doesn’t matter if you’re Jewish, the Venezuelans have enough love for everyone.” Julius studied his drink and his tone lightened. “Tell me, how did you and Edith end up in Caracas?”
Vera thought of their passage on the Queen Elizabeth, when they couldn’t wait to arrive in New York and be driven to Samuel Rothschild’s Fifth Avenue town house. There were the hours spent pacing under the clock at Ellis Island before they realized he wasn’t coming. But there was no point in bringing it up now. The whole idea of coming to Venezuela was to create new lives.
“We wanted to get far away from Europe. Venezuela seemed like the perfect destination,” Vera said instead. “Edith lost her childhood sweetheart. I keep telling her he might be alive, but she gave up hope. It’s easier to forget when you’re somewhere new.”
“And what about you? Did you lose anyone?”
Should she tell him about her mother who died because Vera jumped off the train without her? Or Anton, who was lost to her now? But Julius was a stranger.
“There’s no one,” she answered, pretending to concentrate on the sash of her dress. “I read a brochure and it promised sun-kissed beaches and a city alive with music and color.”
“It’s even better than what you’ve read,” Julius agreed. “A warm climate and plenty of food, and oil money welling up from the ground.” He pointed to where Edith was standing. A young man pressed a champagne flute to Edith’s lips. “But be careful, even Caracas has a dark side. When life becomes too easy, sometimes common decency is left behind.”
“Thank you,” Vera said, but suddenly the sound of Edith’s laughter from across the room made her uneasy. “If you’ll excuse me, it was nice to meet you. I’m sure we’ll see you again.”
Edith had finally slipped away from the circle of men and was chatting with two women wearing silk evening gowns and long white gloves. Even from across the ballroom Vera could tell they had money.
Maybe Edith knew what she was doing after all. The band played Perry Como’s “Till the End of Time,” and Vera remembered dancing with Anton at the Hotel Quisisana in Capri. Her head had rested on Anton’s shoulder, and for a moment she wasn’t a homeless refugee. She was a nineteen-year-old girl dancing with her fiancé in one of the most romantic spots on earth.
“Would you like to dance?” a male voice asked in English, inter
rupting her thoughts.
Vera’s eyes flickered to a man with dark hair standing beside her. He resembled a movie star in a perfectly cut dinner jacket and white bow tie.
“No, thank you.” She shook her head. “I don’t dance.”
“Everyone is here to dance. And that dress is too pretty to waste.” He held out his arms. “I promise I’m a good dancer.”
They moved to the center of the ballroom and the man put his hand around Vera’s waist. Instinctively she froze. No man had touched her since Anton. But then he twirled her around the dance floor and the dress flared around her knees like a spinning top.
“I told you I was a good dancer,” he said when they stopped, and he led her to the punch bowl. He dipped a cup into the crystal bowl and handed it to her. “My mother made me take dancing lessons. I hated everything about it.” He smiled at Vera. “Now I send her flowers to thank her. There are few things better than dancing with a beautiful woman.”
His eyes were liquid brown and his cheeks were smooth as butter, but something about him made her nervous. Was it just the idea of talking to an attractive man? She remembered Douglas Bauer expecting her to kiss him because she went to his cabin, and took a step back.
“It was fun, thank you,” Vera said and sipped the punch. “I have to go; my friend is waiting for me.”
The man followed her gaze. “Your friend has more admirers than any woman in the room. Please stay and talk to me.” He made a small bow. “Ricardo Albee.”
“Vera Frankel,” Vera said.
“You speak good English,” Ricardo replied.
“I’m glad you think so.” Vera smiled. “I have a job interview at an English-speaking ad agency tomorrow and I’ve been worried I need more practice.”
“Beautiful and a workingwoman, too.” Ricardo nodded his approval. “The young women in Caracas rely on their parents to pay for everything until a suitor comes along to take over the task.” His eyes ran down Vera’s dress. “Not that it would be a burden with you.”
“I’m not looking for a suitor,” Vera returned. She glanced toward Edith again. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”
He put his hand on her arm. She looked up and there was an amused expression on his face.
“I apologize if I upset you.” He bowed again. “I’m sure we’ll see each other. There is only one grand ballroom in Caracas and there are parties here almost every week.”
* * *
Later that night, Vera and Edith sat in Lola’s kitchen and ate chicken broth soup with eggs and carrots that Lola had left for them with black bread. They had been too worried about ruining their gowns to eat at the ball, and now Edith dipped bread into the soup.
“All that flirting must be good for your appetite,” Vera observed.
“I barely noticed the men at the party. But Kitty Buchanan complimented me on my gown,” Edith replied. “She invited me to a luncheon next week. I’m going to sew a new dress that is so stylish every woman will want a copy.”
“Didn’t Kitty wonder how you ended up at her party?” Vera asked.
“She thought we met at a fashion show in Paris in 1944, after the liberation,” Edith said as she buttered her bread. “Kitty is so crazy about Parisian fashion, she made her husband attend the shows while the rest of Europe was still at war.” Her eyes darkened. “While Stefan and our fathers were laboring at the work camps, American husbands were trailing after their wives in Paris, drinking champagne and buying hats.”
“You really think she’ll help you?” Vera asked.
“Kitty is the kind of woman who loves taking artists under her wing. She’ll boast that I studied under Schiaparelli. Enough about me.” Edith glanced up from the soup. “I saw you dancing with that man.”
Vera shrugged. “It was nothing. He asked me to dance and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“Maybe he’s some wealthy Venezuelan who’ll take you driving in his convertible and bring you boxes of chocolates.”
“The only thing I’m interested in is my job interview.” Vera ate a bite of plantain. It was coated with brown sugar and tasted delicious after the spicy soup. “I don’t even want to think about men; it only causes heartache.” The image of Anton sitting on the ferry to Capri came unbidden to her mind and she walked determinedly to the door. “I’m going upstairs to read until I fall asleep.”
* * *
It was getting late and Vera closed her book. She was too tired to read. Ricardo was handsome, but when he put his arms around her she felt nothing. She remembered the happiness of making love with Anton in Capri as if her whole body was floating.
It was time to stop holding on to her losses as if they were favorite childhood dolls. She and Edith were in Caracas now. The breeze smelled of flowers and the sun shone all day long. All she had to do was believe anything was possible.
CHAPTER TWELVE
February 1947
Vera sat in the reception area of the ad agency and studied the framed ads on the wall. She had dressed carefully in a floral dress. At the last minute, Lola loaned her a hat and a pair of short white gloves.
It was already hot when she left the house that morning and she had been afraid her dress would stick to her stockings. At least it was the dry season. She heard that from May to October it could rain all evening. It was impossible to walk through the streets without ruining your shoes.
She had to take two streetcars to reach the ad agency, and the streetcar moved so quickly she almost missed her stop. Everything about the city still felt so foreign: the neighborhoods with abandoned cars and dilapidated apartments that were poorer than anything she’d seen in Budapest contrasted with the central business district where banks stood proudly next to buildings that housed oil companies and embassies with flags flying above gold canopies.
Vera adjusted her gloves and hoped she looked older. When she applied for the secretary position in Naples she hadn’t worried about her age. She had the letter of introduction from Captain Bingham, and not many women spoke both English and Italian. In Venezuela there had been no war, and more women were able to take secretarial courses and learn languages at the university. There were bound to be applicants with better qualifications.
“Miss Frankel?” The receptionist appeared with her steno pad. “If you follow me, Mr. Matthews will see you.”
The woman led her to an office that was completely different from Anton’s office at the embassy. The desk was clear except for a framed photograph and a metal in-box stacked with papers. There was an empty ashtray and two chairs covered in orange fabric.
Vera wouldn’t be able to impress Mr. Matthews by sweeping away cigarette butts and screwing caps on pens.
“Good morning,” Mr. Matthews greeted as he entered the room. He wore black-rimmed glasses and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.”
“You have a very nice office,” Vera commented.
“I’m very organized. I learned it in the army,” he confessed. “Please have a seat.” He waved at the chair. “Tell me, Miss Frankel. What’s your favorite kind of car?”
“My favorite car?” Vera gulped. She had practiced responses to all sorts of questions: her necessary salary, her dictation speed—but her favorite car?
“General Motors is building a factory outside of Caracas and in a few months the roads will be full of American cars,” he explained as if he had read her thoughts. “J. Walter Thompson has been chosen as the advertising agency tasked with making a GM the only car that Venezuelans want to drive. Everyone on the team—even the lady who caters our meetings—should have an opinion on cars.”
Vera couldn’t even pretend to know anything about the subject.
“I’m from Budapest. My parents didn’t drive a car,” Vera said. “They kept a car in the country, but I don’t remember what it was.”
“You don’t remember?” he repeated.
“I was sixteen when the war came to Hungary and we stopped going to the country,” sh
e answered.
“How do you expect to write ads convincing people to buy cars if you’ve hardly driven in one?”
“I’m a fast learner. My parents taught me Italian and French and Spanish, and I learned to write in English from reading plays.”
“This isn’t a university, it’s an ad agency,” he grunted. “A copywriter is like cupid with an arrow. An ad only has space for a few words, but it has to pierce the heart of anyone who reads it. I’m afraid you don’t have the necessary skills for the position.”
Vera stood up, but something stopped her before she opened the door.
“I have a letter of recommendation.” She pulled a paper from her purse. It was Anton’s letter to General Ashe in Rome, asking him to find a position for her.
He scanned the letter.
“Obviously this person felt strongly about your character, but this letter doesn’t say anything about your writing experience.” He glanced up at Vera, her chin trembling. Vera wondered whether he could see the desperation in her eyes. “I’ve got to interview half a dozen girls,” he announced, taking pity on her. He folded the letter and put it on the desk. “Why don’t you come back this afternoon? Frankly, I don’t think this is the job for you, but I can give you an answer then.”
* * *
Vera stood on the steps of J. Walter Thompson and noticed the famous Caracas Cathedral with its bell tower and white turrets on the other side of Plaza Bolívar. But she was too nervous to appreciate it. She had spent the afternoon trying every place that might have an opening. She revisited the bookstore that sold foreign books, and the Italian and British consulates. All she got were polite rejections and offers to let her know if something opened up.
The door to the agency swung open and a girl with a leather purse and matching shoes walked out. She was smiling gaily and there was confidence in her step. The assistant copywriter job was probably hers.
